Annie Lipton was part of the managerial staff at the Cincinnati Art School, where I had once been a student. For some unknown reason, I went by there one day. Annie was standing in the foyer of the school holding a stack of books and papers in her arms and a mutual friend introduced us. I must have been introduced as an artist/musician because she told me she did a radio show on WILT, a local public station. She said she was always looking for guests and asked me if I wanted to appear on the show sometime. Having never done radio, it sounded like a great opportunity and I agreed.
This was years before my Grandview CD (see chapter 5). I had made two records prior to Grandview and they were both 7-inch singles. My appearance on her show consisted of playing a few songs live in-studio and promoting the second of those singles; which had Thirty Dollar Wedding on the A side and The Last Time I Saw Richard on the B side.
The idea of performing live on radio can be nerve wracking, particularly if you’ve never done it before. When the word “radio” is mentioned the show business novice imagines numberless listeners tuning in and paying close attention to each syllable that is uttered and every note that is sung. All of these concerns are unwarranted and, in the case of WILT, they are comical. The listenership of a little station like this is marginal at best. Because of its non-profit, government- and donor-funded status, the management has to allow for almost any type of show to be aired. That is why you hear things like The New Black Panther Hour followed by a German Music Program followed by Lesbian Life News followed by a Surf Music Show followed by a Baptist Gospel Program. Nearly anyone and everyone is invited. All you need is a broadcaster’s license and a broken compass.
The station was in Walnut Hills, not far from the drug riddled Jazz club where Sandra would one day be weaving her magic (see chapter 3). It was on the bottom floor of the Halston Arms Apartments, a huge subsidized housing facility in an advanced state of neglect and disrepair. The studio itself had the ambience of a serial killer’s bunker. Years later, I heard stories of the backrooms at WILT being infested with strange insects and sink holes inexplicably appearing in hallways. There was a dim fluorescent light in the waiting area under which sat a filthy couch and a marred Formica coffee table. On the wall I saw a plaque containing the names of the station’s donors that, given the look of my surroundings, struck me as a who’s who of losers. I also remember a small adjacent room containing file cabinets, a desk and an ugly music poster half-heartedly taped to the door.
Halston Arms Apartments
Standing there, tuning my guitar next to the decrepit couch, my most urgent fear was that I might forget the lyrics of the songs I was going to perform. Annie’s show was actually a half-hour segment within someone else’s program; that being, Rockin’ Ricky’s Rock & Roll Rumble. Ricky’s full name was Richard Burns and he worked as a curator at an art cooperative called the Contemporary Cluster. He was very neatly dressed and his records were all perfectly lined up in the order they were to be played.
The memories I have of my performance that night are vague. Annie had the quirky charm of a sexually repressed librarian. The questions she asked seemed slightly incoherent and the show struck me as pointless. She did her best to present me as a captivating and interesting guest but I’m sure I inadvertently sabotaged all her efforts. After managing to stumble through my songs, Rockin’ Ricky condescended to play one of my singles. Seldom have I been so glad for something to end and, thankfully, a recording doesn’t exist of the show. Despite the initial reaction, this would be one of many appearances on WILT and several other radio stations of similar quality. Performing is like smoking or drinking. The first time you do it, you are amazed that people engage in the practice but the revulsion turns into a desire with repeated usage.
Afterwards, I joined some friends – who had listened to the show – at a bar. They were all very congratulatory. The bar was in a fairly affluent part of town and it was filled with young professionals. I happened to recognize two of the barmaids. They were twin sisters who had attended the Cincinnati Art School when I was a student there. We spoke briefly and then my attention turned to a nearly attractive blonde giving me what appeared to be an inebriated come-hither look from across the way. I never acted on this but, much later, I would discover that she was a slightly deranged designer in the ad business.
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© 2013 by Maurice Mattei
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